


split in half, three ways

by biceps



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Moral Ambiguity, Multi, Unrequited Love, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2019-11-13 18:51:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18036896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biceps/pseuds/biceps
Summary: The Good Hunter likes to believe they are in control of their heart.





	1. another jane doe

**Author's Note:**

> HI!! this is different from my usual stuff, but i've been sitting on this for aaaages and it's about time i wrote something for bloodborne ANYWAY!! so
> 
> in order, this series will cover the plain doll, alfred, and eileen, and the hunter's relationships with them. this first chapter is short, but the next two are much longer. tags will be updated accordingly. i took inspiration from "warm healer" by everything everything for this fic! please give it a listen :D
> 
> i don't own bloodborne, i'm just borrowing the series and its characters for funsies.

The Doll should be their first choice, but that’s precisely why they don’t pick her. That doesn’t mean they don’t try - she’s soft, pretty, and willing - but they aren’t so sure they like that last part so much. They didn’t get a good look at Gehrman, but the crooked grin he gave them when he spoke of the Doll made their blood boil. Not a lot, but just enough to ignite the rebellious flame in their heart. 

No one had ever been so devoted to them, not like she has. No one has ever shown such care and concern for their well being. At first, it overwhelms them; she feels like an elaborate ruse. Some ghostly spectre meant to tease them. But she is so pretty, so  _ tall _ , and the Hunter realizes quickly that they are in awe of her. When she holds their hand and blesses them, they feel that they should be the one to kneel, the one to hold her hands tenderly as she strengthens their power.

But it makes them sick. The way she looks at them, the way she speaks of them so reverently. It frustrates them to the point of rage, but even despite all they’ve done, they cannot even entertain the thought of hurting her. They have a feeling she would not hold it against them, if they did. She has done nothing wrong, and their heart aches.

They ignore their feelings, both out of stubbornness and the persistent fear of a too-kind hand. 


	2. it's ugly, but it is all i want

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ROUND TWO!! took me a hot minute lol

Alfred is, perhaps, the most accessible choice by far. He’s obsessed with that Master of his, but he’s not terrible to look at, and the Good Hunter always had a thing for more heavy set people.

He just talked so damn much. It was a (slightly) welcome change from the eerie, familiar silence of Yharnam, and sometimes they let him prattle on about vilebloods and executioners and whatever else just to fill the void, long after their irritation with him had reached a boiling point.

His eyes didn’t look right, either, and they would notice this when trying to survey him. Their gaze would linger a hair too long on his cloudy irises, and then they’d think ‘a _ h, i’ll have to take care of him soon. _ ’ Their thoughts drift from attraction to their duty, to the inevitable end that they and Alfred must face, loathe as they are to think of it.

“Are you even listening? It’s quite rude to ignore someone when they are talking to you.” Alfred chastises them, thin lips pulled into an uncharacteristic frown. The Good Hunter blinks at him. 

“Sorry. You talk a lot. A little hard for me to follow along sometimes.” 

The skin pulls around Alfred’s mouth in a way that makes them want to backhand him. It’s not necessarily a bad thing. His teeth are very straight in a way that feels unnatural. They stare, unabashed.

“ _ You  _ were the one who agreed to cooperate, dear Hunter. If this arrangement does not suit you anymore, simply say the word and we may part ways.” He trudges deeper into the Forbidden Woods, slicing through the overgrown branches in his way with a flick of his wrist. 

They agree, but they’d never tell him that. They appreciate his help with the Blood-Starved Beast and while they were not the best of people, the Good Hunter repaid their debts in due time. 

They think of this, fleetingly, as they frantically dodge Martyr Logarius’ barrage of attacks. A part of them wants to let him kill them so they can run back to Alfred and - and what, exactly? Tell him that the reanimated corpse of his master is atop this castle, eradicating anything that even comes close?

The Good Hunter has no more time to think on it. Logarius is too quick. Out of desperate habit, they shoot him just as he raises his scythe high above his head and he drops to one long, bony knee on the roof. It is the first time they have successfully parried him and the Hunter in them lunges, the Holy Blade piercing through the corpse’s chest cavity in one smooth motion. 

Logarius makes a gutteral sound with his non existent throat. He disappears in a waft of dust and moonlight, and the Hunter feels empty. The triumph of killing a powerful being is absent from their chest.

The emptiness is filled with something different when they find an unopened letter inside the throne room. The Vileblood Queen has nothing else of interest for them and they hardly give her a second thought as they leave Cainhurst, drawn to the entrance of the Forbidden Woods, their head in a haze of this strange emotion.

Alfred’s lips pull along his teeth in a wide smile. The Good Hunter can barely hear him as he thanks them, distracted by how uncomfortably white they seem in the moonlight. The light catches off of his cloudy eyes, almost like marbles instead of an organ, his plump cheeks pulling around prominent laughter lines.

An already huge hand clad in a huge gauntlet slams upon their shoulder and The Good Hunter is reminded, truly, of how deadly this man is. He could snap them in half. The thought brings an uncomfortable flutter to their stomach.

Then the hand is gone. They meet Alfred’s eyes once more. The edges crinkle as he speaks to them. He could be telling them how to break out of the nightmare for good and they would not have heard a word.

—

The Good Hunter attempts a better effort at listening when they meet him again. Blood drunk, elated, triumphant Alfred is much louder, much deeper than before. The Queen’s blood smells stagnant and ancient from festering in her veins for centuries, and The Good Hunter finds themselves lightheaded from it as well.

Alfred turns to them suddenly once his laughter has ended. His arms stretch towards them. “Good Hunter,” He croons. “It is you, is it? You see what I have done?” 

They allow his gargantuan hands onto their shoulders, caging them parallel to his form. They do not have to see his face to feel his heady gaze through the helm, to feel the imposed weight his words lay upon their skin. 

“I’ve done it, I have!” His voice stutters under the weight of his triumph. His hands shake and in turn, they shake, too. They feel as blood drunk as he, head filled with fuzz up to their eyeballs, muscles weightless, the holy blade molding into their hand as an extension of themselves rather than a weapon… 

And then his hands are gone. The cold seeps deep into their bones and the moon sears their eyes.

—

This chill remains with them for longer than they realize. When they find Alfred’s corpse hunched and bloody before the statue where they had first met, there is a rush of phantom warmth. Like a gust of air, one that smells of stagnant blood and finality. It is after the warmth disappears, once and for all, do they begin to loathe the cold.


End file.
